


Journey to Sarashtang

by Ilthit



Category: Original Work
Genre: Class Differences, D/s dynamic, Elves, High Fantasy, Humiliation, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Sex, M/M, Mountains, Orcs, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Relationship, Speciesism, Treachery, Wordcount: Over 1.000, mild asphyxiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:35:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit
Summary: These were dangerous lands, and Elfkind had rarely ventured far along the mountain range, beyond the furthest outposts of their cities and towns. If one wanted a local guide, orcs and trolls were all one had to choose from.
Relationships: Male Elf Diplomat/Male Orc Mercenary Hired to Escort Him, Original Elf Character(s)/Original Orc Character(s), Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 15
Kudos: 57
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Journey to Sarashtang

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tentacledicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentacledicks/gifts).



"He is an orc." The word twisted Saloval's mouth in distaste. "You cannot trust an orc. What was the House Master thinking?"

"That here is a fierce warrior without a pack, who needs food and pay as much as anyone else?" Tansa arched a perfect eyebrow and leaned back in the carriage. "Besides, what is he going to do, devour you like a leg of mutton while our Elven guard sleep? You did not grumble so when we hired the mountain troll."

"One can reason with a mountain troll," Saloval muttered, but let the matter drop. These were dangerous lands, and Elfkind had rarely ventured far along the mountain range, beyond the furthest outposts of their cities and towns. If one wanted a local guide, orcs and trolls were all one had to choose from.

Saloval glanced out the wide open window of the carriage at the line of riders on horseback that flanked them on both sides. Armour clinked, hooves struck the wet grass, and swords in sheaths slapped against saddle leather. The orc rode into view as Saloval watched, and for a moment he was transfixed.

Th'rach-seh. That was the his name. An ugly name in an ugly language, belonging to an uglier face. Protruding jaw, with tusks like a wild hog; skin grey, its grooves highlighted with mud and white paint; hair growing long and wild down a wide and muscled back. Most times Saloval had looked into such a face before, it was to raise his sword to it. When Th'rach-seh glanced in his way, those beady eyes glittered with what must be animal cunning.

Saloval quickly sat back in the carriage and fixed his eye on the wall of pine trees on the other side.

-

The lands between Valavanno and Sarashteng were wild, but the Sarashic court was not much less so, nor the humans much less bestial—and yet that was their destination. The Sarashi were rich in wheat and minerals, both of which sylvanian Valavanno needed to sustain its growing population as more Elven refugees arrived from the west and south. It was imperative the trade routes remain open, and that these recent rumours of an alliance with the Kenta-pei Empire were troubling. The Empire's needs could easily swallow up all the wheat in the Tangten plains, leaving nothing to trade with anyone else.

Saloval and Tansa, therefore, had a great deal of leeway to negotiate. They discussed this quietly as their cushioned carriage rocked and rolled its way through uneven roads, or no roads at all. Days of long travel turned into nights slept under the stars, and every day the enormity of their responsibility loomed that little bit closer.

Saloval was no upstart, nor a stranger to war, but these were troubling times. The pressure of western aggression reminded him sharply of those days a millennia ago when he had been a boy, and the Dark Century had been about crash upon the nations of the Circle, to mark and remold them forever. Elves were fewer in number now than they had been then. How many would be left if it was all to happen again?

The dry spell broke on the third day, and while the diplomats had the option to sleep awkwardly curled on the narrow benches of their carriage, the guards outside erected oilcloth shelters and huddled under the curtain of rain. It muffled all sound, hiding even the outlines of the mountains against the sky.

Saloval found he could not sleep, with that wall of nothingness trammeling him into the carriage. The inactivity of the recent days had left him with little need for sleep, and so he did not bother to try. The noise of the rain drowned out all thought, but his spirit remained too restless for quiet meditation. Something about that rain bothered him.

Surely nothing dangerous would be out and about in weather like this? No creatures, evil or benign, would venture out in a storm. Except, perhaps—

A cry, only just on the edge of hearing, as of an enormous hawk.

Saloval reached for the short blade at his side. "Tansa!" The name had barely left his lips when claws ike scimitars crashed through the silver glass of the carriage's window and ripped the door off its hinges. He saw the flash of feathered wings, two fierce red eyes, and a mouth open in a screech.

His blade tasted blood. Tansa was beside him now, his short crossbow drawn back, but his first bolt whistled under a beating wing, and then claws closed around Saloval's arm.

"Harpies! Harpies!" Tansa's cry disappeared behind him as he was dragged out into the rain. It slammed into him, soaking him to the bone in an instant. The warmth of blood splattered his arm.

Then something dragged at the creature that held him, and in two wrenches the claws released him. A shape loomed in the grey curtain of rain, beat down once, twice on the creature until it lay still. There were other cries now, the familiar cadence of Valavanno Elvish barking orders. The twang of flying arrows.

The shape grabbed the front of Saloval's tunic and shoved him harshly back. He stumbled and fell back under the carriage's roof, the hand of his manhandler—his saviour—still clutching the fine embroidered fabric. It was a large hand, rough, hairy, and grey.

Th'rach-seh's face showed no emotion as he withdrew back into the rain, and Saloval heard the swish of a large blade being drawn, and Tansa muttering spells, as a cocoon of thick oak branches grew around their carriage, sealing them in.

-

The morning brought relief from the rain, a piercing sun and a breath of frosty air rolling down from the mountains. Saloval's arm ached still, though Tansa's magic had knitted the torn flesh back together. He stepped out of the carriage, its magical defenses lowered in the small hours after the captain had given them the all clear, to see the campsite rebuilt, and bodies stretched out upon the ground, sheets of burlap over their faces. Calavel, a lieutenant, one of Saloval's own nation, lay pale and still—he knew him by his coat instantly. Three harpies had been given the same consideration, their twisted bodies carrying hideous wounds.

The mountain troll sat beside the bodies, in the shadow of a great tree, curled over himself. His middle was bandaged and his breathing heavy. Saloval had seen enough battle in his many centuries before settling down in the capital to know he would not last—not without a talented healer's efforts.

He pointed the troll out to Tansa, who had come to stand beside him, his eyes unfocused with lack of sleep. Tansa was younger, and his magic still drained him. "We would probably be better off leaving him with his people here," said Saloval gently.

Tansa blinked at the troll, then Saloval, with a look of sleepy confusion, then trudged to the bodies, making a sign of blessing in the direction of the dead. The troll startled at the touch of his arm, but calmed as Tansa began to speak. Saloval recognized that tone; a healer's calming cadence. He turned away in disgust; of the dead, of this wretched land, and of himself.

There would have to be burial words said, grief to be endured, once he let himself truly realize Calaval was gone.

He had fought by Calaval’s uncle, once, a long time ago. They had all been tired, worn out from despair and destruction. Up above, the hill had been black with goblins, orcs, wyverns and werewolves, all the myriad forms of evil that ravaged, destroyed, murdered and desecrated without any thought for mercy, only conquest. He had seen that good elf’s helmet crushed under a flying boulder, had had to leave his grieving songs unsung as their defenses collapsed.

"My lord." He realized this was the second time he had been called. He stopped and turned to see the captain, Laleilin, with her hand outstretched towards him, her slender serious brows knitted together under her curving helmet. She, too, held her arm awkwardly. "Please, stay within the camp, or allow me to assign you a guard."

"The sun has risen," Saloval pointed out. They would need elves for the preparation of Calaval's pyre at midday, as well as the perimeter guard, and had precious few. "I understand your concern, but there will be no more storm-ladies out in this sunlight." And he very much wanted to get away, before someone saw the weakness in him.

Laleilin looked around, her eyes flicking from elf to elf. "The orc, then." She pointed at Th'rach-seh, who was standing grimly in perimeter guard, his crude peaked helmet pulled down to shield his eyes against the low sun. "He fought well last night. And you—you are not without skills yourself. My lord."

Saloval heard the second meaning behind her words. _If he turns treacherous, surely you can handle one orc._ He inclined his head. "I have my blade."

Laleilin whistled and gestured at the orc, who seemed to understand at once. He said nothing as he settled into pace behind Saloval, his stench of wet fur, metal and old leather as constant a reminder as the clinking of the parts of his cobbled-together armour.

They headed down an incline of hill down from the neglected road the troupe had been following. This was not the established trade route, but mountain roads and passes that would expedite their travel by weeks, to get them to Sarashtang before the beginning of fall. Along the guarded routes they would have been delayed by crowds, customs and harassing foreign politicians, forced to pay bribes and make official visits as they passed through the several nations and city-states on the roads, but Calaval would likely have lived.

Here, though they were high, the mountain evened out, and the hill was neither steep nor long, and ended by a copse circled by a serpentine twist of mountain spring. The water would be freezing and treacherous, but Saloval kneeled beside it all the same and cupped it into his mouth and splashed it upon his face to wash off the dust of travel and the taste of blood. He tore off his shredded and bloodied tunic and threw more water over his chest and arms, relishing the sting that woke up his skin. The water ran pink between his fingers. He sent first silent, then muttered prayers to the gods of the sky, the earth, and water, for purification and peace, and for the souls of the fallen.

The orc stood silently behind him, watching.

Saloval stripped off his shoes, then his leggings, and lay back naked in the dewy grass, soaking in power of the mountain below even as his skin shivered at every breeze. The healing did not come. Something in him resisted it. The memory of old wounds that had never fully healed, either; of old wars that still went on in his head.

A clink of armour. Saloval's hand flew out to his weapon, but he had barely grasped it when Th'rach-seh's ugly face loomed over him, and large fingers prodded through his hair, soothing it out over the grass. His head was not being crushed, but... caressed? His grip on the blade eased.

He stared up at those dirty lines, at the orc's eyes roaming expressionlessly across his face and neck, down his chest, as his fingers continued to comb out Saloval's tresses in a sunburst pattern. The gesture resembled nothing so much as tenderness, and Saloval waited, with a quickening heartbeat, to see what would come next.

The orc ooked in his eyes, then slipped a dirty thumb into Saloval's mouth.

Startled, he sucked it in, closed his mouth around it, tongue tight against the underside. His jaw moved as of its own accord, suckling on the digit.

As it did, he realized he had been asked, and had said yes.

A wild fog descended upon his mind. The unthinkable became thinkable, and his entire being said _yes_.

Saloval had had human lovers before, and lovers of mixed heritage, but orcs raped and ravaged and abused. They were little more than animals. One would have to be entirely without shame or fear to even think of allowing an orc to touch one.

He closed his eyes and bobbed his head, making sure there could be no mistake of what he was simulating.

_Yes, defile me, take my pride right here, before I have to return to the wretchedness of duty and death._

The thumb left his mouth with a pop. A crash of metal and leather as the orc shrugged off his armour. His shoulders blocked out the sun, his hair haloed in its light. His hands grabbed Saloval's hips and turned him around roughly. Saloval's chin hit the ground, making his teeth ache, but then he was dragged backwards until his rump was raised up in the air. He'd not even caught sight of what he was about to be subjected to, and could only mutter another prayer into the grass.

Instead of an expected shock of pain, however, he felt the groping of rough fingers between his legs. He was cupped and fondled, pinched lightly between forefinger and wet thumb, and could not help but squirm and cry out softly at the handling. His member was soft, though the dark need coursing through him was no less for it, and this graceless probing did not help. He reached down and slapped the orc's hand away, taking himself in hand instead.

To come while being taken by an orc—how much lower could one sink? Yet he wanted to sink lower still. He sucked in two fingers of his free hand, then pressed his forehead to the ground and reached behind himself, pushing first one, then the other inside his opening. It was rough and dry, but with focus he could ease himself open...

Large hands cupped both his buttocks, rubbed them, squeezed them, closed his flesh tighter around his own fingers. The orc's breath now like a harsh wind rattling a wooden door, like a running beast. Saloval felt his wrist grabbed and his fingers suddenly yanked out. He fumbled for purchase on the ground and braced himself, but instead of a penetration he was not yet ready for, he felt the touch of a wet, warm tongue along his rim.

It was as if in one puff of breath all of Saloval's long life drained out and left him an empty vessel. He felt Th'rach-seh's tusks press against the flesh of his rump as that impossibly long tongue lapped at him, then stiffened into a point and dipped inside him, deeper than any elven tongue could penetrate. "Oh, oh, stars preserve me," Saloval gasped out as its tip began to circle and move back and forth inside him, saliva dripping down his buttocks and trickling down the backs and insides of his legs.

He was no longer soft now, his member trembling in his own hand. He squeezed it lightly, and pleasure pumped through it; his hips rocked needily between tongue and fist for what seemed like forever, and at the same time not nearly long enough.

There was a slap on his rump, hard enough to leave a dark mark, if not a bruise, and the tongue left him. This time there was no time to brace. His muscles contracted instinctively, but by then the tip of Th'rach-seh's cock was already past his first defenses. The orc slowed then, pushing in inch by agonizing inch, until Saloval felt filled to the brim; and then there was yet an inch to go, and another. The ground swallowed up his fast panting breath as he struggled to relax.

Finally, he could feel Th'rach-seh's hips against his, the rough hair along the orc's belly and thighs tight against his own bare skin. The orc leaned over him, and Saloval's hazy eyes fixed on the large grey hand braced on the ground beside his head. That smell of metal was still on the orc's skin; perhaps it was the smell of old blood.

Then Th'rach-seh pulled out, almost to the tip, and pushed back in, faster now, taking up previously claimed ground, and Saloval could think of nothing else. His fingers still wrapped around his cock, but they were loose and nerveless as Th'rach-seh rutted into him over and over, the puffing of his nostrils and his low throaty growl in Saloval's ear.

The weight lifted off him, and a hand gripped Saloval's throat, lifting him effortlessly up into the orc's lap, still pierced on that cock. He knew what to do; he braced his knees on the ground and lifted his hips up, then pushing back down, keeping the rhythm of their coupling going, eagerly engulfing that impossible member inside him, The hand stayed on his throat, thumb caressing the side of his neck, while the other reached around to similarly engulf him.

The inside of the orc's hand was calloused and rough, but soon slick with Saloval's own moisture, which seeped helplessly from the tip of his cock. He arched his back and rested his head against Th'rach-seh's shoulder, nuzzling his thick neck; even here, hair grew like bristles. He smelled of sex, now, overpowering the sweat and muck. Saloval was lost, he was defeated—he buries his moans in that grey skin, catching it between his teeth as he spent his seed in a burst over the orc's hand, and his own stomach.

It did not stop the rutting. Th'rach-seh merely blew air out of his nostrils like a frustrated bull and shoved Saloval forward, back onto his hands and knees, wrapped his fingers around his thighs and proceeded to slap into him harder.

Saloval bit his teeth together and managed to keep his cries in his throat, choking out muffled sounds and swallowing grass. His mind floated somewhere beyond the moment, as if deep in meditation, as his body took the pounding.

Finally, finally, with a deep thrust and the shiver of tight muscles against Saloval’s thighs, the orc came. Warmth spread inside Saloval’s body, held it as Th'rach-seh continued to pump the last of his seed into him, until he withdrew with a sloppy sound. Saloval instinctively tightened his muscles, closing up around that seed.

He lay in a shivering mess on the grass as the orc backed off and sat back on his haunches with an grunt of satisfaction. The mountain was quiet; the spirits of the air and water unperturbed. His battered body was singing a new kind of song.

What had he done?

-

"You meditate a great deal of late, old friend," Tansa said on the sixth day of their journey.

"There is little else to do," Saloval answered, as he lay his mat down upon the grass and settled on it cross-legged, hands joined in his lap. He closed his eyes and his mind, shutting down any further conversation. The smell of cooking rose from the camp; he shut that out, too.

Dark, cunning eyes upon his back—that awareness stayed with him even as he sank deeper into stillness.

It took him almost another full day to ask for Th'rach-seh's cock again.

-

"Why are you without pack?" Saloval asked in Trading. Most of the people of the mountains spoke the Trading tongue, an amalgamation of local languages that allowed basic communication in the absence of translators.

Th'rach-seh did not immediately answer—perhaps he did not understand. Perhaps he couldn't. Saloval had not heard him utter a single word since he had first laid eyes upon him. He nodded, even saluted in his sloppy way, but he did not speak.

Saloval drew a lazy finger across the orc's scarred chest, smudging the dirt, mixing it with the come sprayed there. He would have to dip his whole body into this most recent pool they had discovered merely to wash out the smell of his sweat. But right now he did not mind, as they lay curled together in the shadow of foliage, the orc's large hand clutching the elf's thigh tight against him.

"Killed," said Th'rach-seh at last.

Saloval was not sure why he was surprised, but nonetheless it nudged something inside him. He lay his head down upon the orc's shoulder. "Mine too. I joined a different… pack. This is my pack now." He lifted his eyes to the orc, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "War makes us all orphans and refugees," he ventured.

Th'rach-seh grunted and dug his fingernails—hard and jagged as claws—into Saloval's flesh, bringing forth pinpricks of blood.

-

The ninth and final day of their journey was about to dawn in a few hours, and Saloval sat once again at the window of the carriage, unable to sleep. Today the skies were clear and pale, the gibbous moon colouring the world in silver and blue, and the blanket of stars above like a smattering of drops of milk.

It would be over soon, and no-one would ever know. The scratches and bruises on his body would fade. The dark things he had stared into on this journey, in his head and in the arms of an Orcish lover, would fade with them, and he would do his duty as befit him, and find peace once again; peace that did not come only when skewered on a cock, with fingers tightening around his throat.

There simply was no alternative.

...But that was tomorrow.

He left the carriage quietly, closing the door with a silent click. A perimeter guard shifted and saluted, and Saloval waved back. At the edge of the camp, the hulk of the troll sat unmoving like a slab of stone. The skies had looked grey before they had bedded down, so tents were erected for the others, sleeping several elves in one.

He found Th'rach-seh curled up on the ground at the edge of the camp. A touch on his shoulder, and he uncurled into a crouching position, which told Saloval he had not slept either. "Good," said Saloval. "I don't suppose…"

He was yanked down by his hair, and brought low to the ground. "Stay," Th'rach-seh commanded. "Quiet."

Saloval's fingers went to the clasp of his tunic, but he was only shoved lower to the ground, with an extra yank on his hair. And so he stayed quiet, waiting.

Then he heard it. The rustling of leaves down below, the sound of metal on metal.

A guard stood and pointed, shouts went up. Saloval trashed to rise and join the others, but the orc wrapped himself around him and held him down with his whole body, hand smashed over his mouth. Saloval bit and struggled, but he was caught. Face to the ground, he could not even see—could only hear the clash of swords, the cacophony of battle. And the familiar shouts of Orcish war cries.

"Traitor," he hissed into the ground, helpless tears in his eyes as Th'rach-seh methodically relieved him of his blade and hooked it into his own belt.

What else had he expected?

The horizon in the east had only just began to lighten as the brief battle came to a close. As the howl of triumph went up, the weight finally lifted off him, and he was dragged up on to his feet. Many pairs of dark eyes turned upon them as Th'rach-seh thrust him out of the foliage and towards the scene of carnage.

Of the twelve they had been, nine were left standing. Two elves lay unmoving on the ground and the troll was nowhere to be seen. It was more than he had expected. Laleilin, bloodied and shivering, slumped in the grip of an orc warrior. Tansa was roughly bundled in ropes, and the rest of the guard stripped of weapons and armour, likewise tied up like animals. The largest orc raised his jagged axe to Th'rach-seh and said something in Orcish. It was a question.

Th'rach-seh shook his head and replied in Trading. "Hostages. Elves pay well for Elvish lives."

The orc with the axe pointed at Saloval. Th'rach-seh's grip on him tightened. "No. This one is mine." He pulled Saloval up, flush against his body, and transferred his grip to Saloval's bottom. The Elvish blade swished as he drew it from his belt and held it to Saloval's neck.

In front of everybody. Oh, stars. In front of Tansa. Saloval glanced at his horrified face as the orc with the axe nodded and barked orders, and his companions packed their captives up like luggage on backs of horses and on carts.

"No," Saloval voiced quietly as Th'rach-seh dragged him away. He could hear Tansa's pained voice calling his name.

He was slammed hard against the back of an oak tree, a safe distance beyond hearing. "Don't be stupid," the orc growled. "Try, anyway."

"Traitor," Saloval hissed.

"Mercenary," Th'rach-seh countered. "They paid better. Somebody doesn't want you reaching Sarashtang."

Saloval turned his face away and gritted his teeth. He could at least die with some dignity.

"The commission was to kill you all."

"But hostages pay better, I suppose," Saloval snapped.

Th'rach-seh shrugged his massive shoulders; Saloval could feel the motion through the hand still holding his shoulder back against the tree. "Do you have a better offer?"

"What?" Saloval's head snapped around. He stared at the orc, but could read little in his features.

"These are puny, goblin-mixed mountain orc curs." Th'rach-seh spat on the ground. "Promise me more money than all the lives of the hostages, and more than the pack was paid, and I will challenge their leader and take them over. I will bring your group to Sarashtang. If you cannot do that… they will be traded or auctioned off. You as well, in the end. Until then, you will be mine."

"Your…" His head was spinning.

"My mate."

Saloval's breath caught in his throat. An orc's mate, following a war-pack on foot, through mud and muck, perhaps in chains. Taken every night in a dirty tent, as often as his master demanded, as roughly and in any way he had a mind to.

No more duty, no more responsibilities, and no more pride.

"If you help them escape," Saloval said quietly, "I will remain with you for as long as you will have me. If you don't, I would die first."

Th'rach-seh remained silent, contemplating. "I prefer your way," he said at last. Saloval thought he could detect a hint of amusement in his voice; perhaps even pleasure. "But money? The pack must be paid."

"My fortune will be yours. It is not inconsiderable. I vow by all the stars in the sky."

Th'rach-seh nodded, released Saloval's shoulder, and sheathed the short Elvish blade. Instead, he pulled out the heavy chopper strapped to his back. "Wait here."

Saloval sank to the ground, shivering, and buried his face in his hands as the sounds of battle began anew.

-

They rejoined the flow of travellers on the main road just as the afternoon was turning towards evening, though in this time of year the sun would not set for some time yet. They made an unusual sight—a fine carriage, with broken glass and deep grooves of scratches on the door, flanked by orcs and almost equally ragged elves riding side by side, and at the head of the retinue, a tall grey figure with white paint proudly smeared over his hideous mug. The carriages blocking the road made way as soon as they could, but everyone had to wait their turn as their cargo was inspected and marked off, with all appropriate bribes and customs paid.

The night had fallen by the time it was their turn. "No orcs," said the customs official, scratching his beard with a suppressed yawn. He addressed Saloval, who was never further than a few feet from Th'rach-seh's side these days. "Pay them and send them off, then declare what you have left. How many elves?"

"Eleven." Saloval gestured for Tansa to come forth. "This is the diplomat. The rest are Valavanno soldiers. I will not be staying."

The official nodded, but Tansa frowned at Saloval, touching his arm. "Old friend…"

"I will not be staying," he said gently. "Tell them I was lost on the road."

"Now what?" grumbled Gha'sharg, Th'rach-seh's second in command, as the orcs and Saloval stood back at the side of the road, and the Elven retinue passed through. "Where are these riches we were promised?"

"In Valavanno," Saloval said. "I must sell my house, and bring you your treasures, and then you will be the richest orcs in the mountains."

Gha'sharg seemed to like the sound of that, and gestured to the others to rally up their horses and gear and start looking lively.

Saloval looked up at his new master. "Will that do?"

Once again, he thought he could detect something like pleasure in those stony features. Maybe he was getting better at reading him. "That will do."

Relief flooded through Saloval, and he rested his head on Th'rach-seh's arm. A hand closed around his. He closed his eyes, and breathed out the terrible weight of his past.

The road to Valavanno was long. Anything could happen in the days to come, and it was even more difficult to predict how events would fall out once they reached Elvish outposts. He did not really see his friends simply allowing him to sell his belongings and move out into the wilderness. Despite his vow, he was not sure he could see himself doing it, either.

But he would have time. They would have time. And Saloval found he could finally breathe.

  



End file.
